


we sing in time

by betternovembers



Series: life during wartime [2]
Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Edge of Tomorrow AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 13:51:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4831457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betternovembers/pseuds/betternovembers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beca tries to figure out the after part of saving the world. It's not going exactly as planned. (Still an Edge of Tomorrow AU, now I recommend watching the movie and reading 'life during wartime' first.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	we sing in time

 

_oh in time the trees die and light will fade_   
_but I hope for a new breath, a new life to take me away_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Beca smiles.

Beale doesn’t smile back.  
   
  


 

* * *

 

 

There was always before, and during. Beca’s not sure anyone’s ever actually thought about _after_. She did, some nights, when she was at her weakest. Hiding in the comforts of what could be, but she never really thought beyond herself (if she’s being completely honest, less about herself and more about Beale).

This brave new world, where it’s just humanity and picking up the pieces. There’s no real hero, no easy narrative. Beale gets trotted around across the globe, simply because she’s the easiest—really the only—pick to be the face of tomorrow. The Angel of Verdun, fighting a CNN talking head with a foam replica of her helicopter blade, while tent cities across Europe riot for food and water.

So basically, they’ve learned nothing.

She watches the news, watches the smile Beale has specifically for her press appearances. Beca can categorize pretty much every one of her facial expressions, and this one is no exception. File under: no patience, hates every second, every stupid question. But Beale is good at this, being some emblem of hope. It was just— _during_ she didn’t actually have to do much, beyond pose for some photos. It wasn’t actually about her. Now it is.

Beale looks more tired the longer it goes on.

Beca Mitchell is weak, part who knows of an endless series: she’s glad it’s not her, having to explain the end of the war without actually saying anything, being propped up as some ordinary volunteer who, “with the new jacket technology and limited training” was the turning point of their entire species’ battle for survival.  

Beale’s on Sky News, a tight smile, her hair in the most severe bun Beca’s ever seen, dodging questions of what she wants to do next.

They haven’t talked in three months.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a victory tour. Of course there is. They even call it a victory tour, which just makes the whole thing seem ghoulish.  Five cities, some of the hardest hit during the war. Berlin, Prague, Zurich, Paris, London. It’s a dash of entertainment with a metric fuckton of propaganda, on top of the ruins of Europe. She’s in charge of the music. Chloe Beale is front and center, with plenty of high-ranking UDF officers to round it out.

Two weeks and three cities where Beale barely acknowledges her existence, mostly nodding at her in backstage hallways or finding the furthest seat away from her on military transports from base to base. Beca counts the number of words she gets. The longest sentence she got was seven words. It was about a sandwich. It’s not exactly inspiring shit.

It’s not like Beale didn’t believe her, that first day of _after_. Beca had certainly mastered the art of convincing Chloe Beale.

Beale catches her staring, after they finish their fourth show in Paris. The Arc di Triomphe still stands and it’s lit up, red and white and blue, thousands of cheering, drunk former soldiers, alive with the possibilities of maybes, forgetting their fallen friends, _alive_. (Maybe there’s something to this, but Beca tries not to think about it too much, one of those special skills she’d picked up during.)

Beale’s nursing a beer, not talking to anyone, watching Beca watch her. _Fuck it_ , Beca thinks, and gets up from her table without excusing herself from her superior officers to go sit next to Beale instead.

“Let’s get this straight. You don’t know me,” is the first and only thing Chloe Beale says to her all night.

Beca hesitates.

It’s a mistake.

Beale’s chair drags across the concrete floor of the makeshift UDF bar.  Beale leaves, and Beca reads the tense line of her shoulders, the half-a-second where Beale almost turns back to look at her before she hits the door.

She orders a double and starts working on getting good and drunk. Beale’s not wrong, but she’s not right either. It’s complicated. It’s just so fucking complicated.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Beca hates that she misses the resets.

Fucking _hates_ it.

It’s just so much harder than she remembers, having this straight line of beginning to end, where time _matters_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Without you there is no tomorrow._

One of those gems from the United Defense Forces, during the recruitment surge after Verdun. She has a flyer, creased from being folded and stuffed in her pocket, Beale’s grim mouth and the slashes of red across her jacket. She knows how pathetic it is that she keeps this, that it’s the only photograph she has of Beale to keep, when her face is everywhere always.

She hates the fucking slogan most of all, because it’s not some call to arms, it’s just a fact.

She’s the _most_ pathetic.

Maybe Beale is right. Beca can’t exactly go up to her and open a conversation with, “I held you while you died every time I could, it took me years to earn the right to call you Chloe, you trusted me, you always trusted me, you kissed me and you’re in my head and I’m so in love with you.”

As a plan, there are multiple points of failure. And it’s not fair to Beale either, to lay so much at her feet and expect something equivalent back. But if anyone is going to understand how fucked up this entire thing is, it’s Beale.

Chloe Beale has always trusted her. She can start there.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Beca waits until after the show in London. She’s already arranged for a bike to be available after the show; there are some perks to the return of being Beca Mitchell, musician and nothing else.

As soon as Beale comes off the stage, Beca is there. She gets a good solid grip on Beale’s wrist. Beale starts to shake her off, which she’s more than capable of, but Beca says, “I have something to show you.” And it must be something in her voice, because when Beca lets go and starts walking, Beale follows her.

(One thing Beca didn’t plan for, or maybe it was some of that self-preservation kicking in once again, but Beale holds onto her the entire ride. She hopes Beale can’t feel how hard her heart is beating, the way she suddenly has to fight for every breath. It’s embarrassing, and she has no control over it.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

Heathrow is back to mostly being an airport, but they haven’t done much to it since it was closed as the primary forward operating base. The bunks are still there, the mess tent is up but empty. Beca could walk the entire thing blindfolded. She drives the bike all the way up to the hangar, and she doesn’t have to turn to know that Beale is confused.

Still, she follows Beca inside, and doesn’t ask questions. Beca doesn’t wait for her, knowing the lights will flick on automatically, wanting to be in _their_ place, on familiar ground.

When she steps inside the training room, she feels like this actually might all work. (The feeling is overly optimistic, and passes quickly.)

“You trained me.” Beale’s still on the platform, just like always, while Beca takes a look at the three walls of a room she grew to hate, then love, then long for. “Here. You told me that first time to come back, and you would show me how to fight.”

Beale takes one step forward, but stops.

Beca turns away, trying to make it easier. “You also shot me in the head. Like, a lot.”

“You probably deserved it,” Beale says, and Beca knows that tone, that one means get on with it. But Beale’s followed her enough tonight, and Beca intends to do this right. She can wait.

“Usually did.”

“Mitchell, if this was what you needed to show me—”

“Just. Hold on a second.” Beca unbuttons her shirt and takes it off, so she’s down to her tank. She wore boots, thank fuck, because she’s going off-script but she’s not really sure of another way to convince Beale of the history in this room. “Come down here.”

The last time they were here together, three and a half months ago, Beale was sweat and fire and aggression. Tonight, she’s still in victory tour mode, all cold grace, hair loose around her shoulders, dressed in her most intimidating all-black ensemble.

“I want to show you what you taught me.” (Things Beca Mitchell doesn’t say: I want to fight for you, I want to fight for a chance, I want to fight for tomorrow.  Beale doesn’t ask for clarification anyway, just looks at her for a long moment before coming down to the floor.)

“This is a shitty plan, Mitchell,” she says, before she throws a jab without warning. It connects with Beca’s cheek before she even has a chance to put her hands up.

Beale’s always had a good jab, stronger than Beca expects. Makes sense, the way it keeps her covered, the efficiency. There’s no space for Beca to exploit, only the half-second before Beale’s hands come up to guard her face.

The fight is exhilarating and messy. Beale still has the strength advantage, even with Beca finally able to build and keep muscle, but Beca still knows her tricks, the way she telegraphs her left cross a punch before it comes, how she likes to get in close before delivering a hit right under Beca’s ribs. Beale splits her lip; Beca finally lands a solid blow right to Beale’s nose and the blood is immediate.

She knows better than to stop though.

They both get cagey, Beale backs off long enough to wipe at her face. Her blood’s on Beca’s knuckles, and she’s breathing heavy. The next time she dances in, Beca’s ready, and she rotates her hips just in time to let another jab slip past her ear, and then grabs Beale in a clinch. She’s opening herself up, taking a risk if Beale breaks her hold, but she guesses right and Beale takes the hint.

“We could be doing this together,” Beca says, with her hands still keeping Beale’s arms pinned. This translates to a lot of things. Beca mostly means being alive, but Beale’s always been good at keeping her guard up.

“Punching each other in the face?” She asks, and actually huffs out something resembling a laugh. Beca feels something in her chest loosen for the first time in months.

She lets go and takes a step back. Beale’s seen better days, but Beca’s certainly seen her have worse.  

“What do you want, Chloe?” And it’s another risk, two really, asking that question now and using Chloe’s name in this moment.

“Mitchell, it’s not that simple—“

“Maybe it should be.”

There’s still blood under Chloe’s nose and Beca, slowly, deliberately, reaches up with her right hand to wipe it away. Chloe doesn’t move, just maintains eye contact and breathes through her mouth, shaky but maybe, just _maybe_ , on the verge of something.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Beca smiles.

And finally, fucking _finally_ , Chloe smiles back.  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't think I was ever going to write this but then I did? Title/quote from The Lonely Forest - We Sing In Time. Also, I'm likely the only human who's ever listened to 'Being Alive' from Company while writing a Edge of Tomorrow/Pitch Perfect AU, but just know it happened. Thank you to Alex, who was actually the only one who asked for this, and to the lovely human known as gayer than marceline abadeer in flannel, who leaves some of the finest feedback I've ever seen.


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